A Werewolf's Mind
by Rane3
Summary: Remus is in love. Snape isn't. Yet.
1. Default Chapter

Warning: This story contains slash. Slash means a relationship between two persons of the same sex; in this case, men. If that bothers you, then please don't read! I'm sure there are plenty of lovely stories with a het pairing. Otherwise, enjoy!  
  
Note that this chapter is PG, but the story will turn R-rated later.  
  
*Feel the vibe, feel the terror, feel the pain It's driving me insane I can't fake For God's sake why am I driving in the wrong lane Trouble is my middle name But in the end I'm not too bad Can someone tell me if it's wrong to be so mad about you Mad about you Are you the fishy wine that will give me a headache in the morning Or just a dark blue landmine that'll explode without a decent warning Give me all your true hate and I'll translate it in our bed Into never seen passion, never seen passion That is why I am so mad about you Mad about you Trouble is your middle name But in the end you're not too bad Can someone tell me if it's wrong to be so mad about you Mad about you* - Mad About You, Hooverphonic  
  
Severus Snape impatiently tapped his fingers on the table. He wished McGonagall would hurry up, and cut her speech short. He shouldn't have to listen to it in the first place. If there was anybody who knew just how dangerous the Dark Lord was, surely it was him. So, really, there was no reason for him to be attending this staff meeting.  
  
As the Head of Gryffindor house droned on about safety precautions, and the threat they were now all under, Snape noted that all the colour had drained for Sprout's otherwise flushed cheeks, that Flitwick looked as though he were about to faint, and that Hooch, of all people, was nervously fidgeting. He smirked inwardly. Cowardly fools! He prided himself that, next to Dumbledore, he was doubtless the most composed person in the room.  
  
With an air of barely suppressed superiority, he continued to observe the other teachers around him, not even bothering to listen; he already knew all of it, anyway - unlike all those ignorants around him. He glared at McGonagall for a moment, hoping it would incite her to finish as quickly as possible. No such luck. She simply ignored him, and launched into a more detailed explanation of the additional wards that had been placed around Hogwarts. Snape clenched his teeth. He did not like to be ignored.  
  
He turned his mind to more pleasant facts. Like the detention he had given Potter a few hours ago. Cleaning the ceiling of the Potions classroom, by hand. *Lets see just how well you can handle that broom of yours, Mr. Potter*, he thought, not aware of the small grin tugging at his lips. With a bit of luck, he might fall off. Of course, even then, Pomfrey would have him up and about in a matter of days, if not hours, but Snape hoped it would hurt. A lot.  
  
It did not help his mood that Potter *was*, after all, one of the main reasons Hogwarts had to be guarded so meticulously. The Dark Lord was indeed looking forward to getting his hands on the damned brat once again. And he had no intention of letting him escape this time. As a matter of fact, he was positively seething, and Snape had no doubt the boy would experience an extremely violent and painful death should he be captured.  
  
He allowed himself to muse on how exactly Potter would meet his horrible demise, but pushed the thought away after a while. It was not going to happen. Though he much enjoyed picturing this particular scene - in full colour and sound - he would never allow this fantasy to become reality; not if he could help it. Dumbledore would, after all, pay a high price for Potter's safety. This also irritated the hell out of Snape - he did not think twice about sending Snape of to spy again, knowing very well the Dark Lord at the very least had strong suspicions concerning the Potions master, whilst he would do anything to protect precious Potter. But Snape was no fool. He knew the boy could prove to be a valuable asset in vanquishing He Who Must Not Be Named.  
  
And maybe his conscience would bother him if he wouldn't do his best to protect the aggravating boy. Well, just a little bit.  
  
However, as another half hour passed, Snape fervently wished he had made the damned boy scrape the ceiling in the Great Hall, instead of the much smaller Potions class. Just as a lovely picture of a much worn out Harry Potter, precariously poised on his broom and cleaning the immense ceiling with nothing but his fingernails, formed in his mind, his eye caught Lupin's.  
  
The DADA teacher innocently shifted his gaze to Sinistra, who was sitting right next to Snape, and then on to Hooch, who was now absent-mindedly ripping the feathers off her quill. The Potions Master suspiciously narrowed his eyes, trying to read the werewolf's expression. He looked entirely innocuous, his stare sliding smoothly from one teacher to another. Snape wondered if he was seeing things. He seemed to catch Lupin staring at him rather often these last few weeks. But it could of course just be a coincidence.  
  
Trouble was, he didn't trust the werewolf. Not one little bit. Nor did he much believe in chance. His anger was mounting still at the very thought of having to sit in the same room with that despicable creature. Again. He silently cursed the Dark Lord for having murdered the previous DADA teacher. Which said something about his dislike of Lupin, considering Professor Summers had been a complete nitwit. Only Longbottom could probably have topped her in stupidity and sheer incompetence. And that was not taking into account the fact that Longbottom was a mere sixth year student, and not a qualified teacher.  
  
And so Lupin had come back, much to the dismay of a number of concerned parents. Only Dumbledore's reassurance that all possible precautions were being taken with regards to the safety of the children had stopped the departure of several students. Well, that, and the fact that compared to the threat of the Dark Lord, a werewolf seemed to be the lesser evil. Everybody knew Hogwarts was just about the safest place in the world.  
  
Snape was not so sure. He continued observing Lupin for a while, and after a few minutes, the werewolf's eyes shifted discreetly from McGonagall back to him. The moment he met Snape's scrutinising dark gaze, his eyes widened in surprise - and, doubtless, guilt - while Lupin abruptly turned his head away. His stare fixed pointedly on McGonagall, and he seemed suddenly very interested in the ongoing flood of words. It might have been credible, were it not that less than a moment after he looked away, a deep red colour crept into his cheeks, spreading out quickly.  
  
If Snape had been distrusting before, now he was certain his suspicions were justified. *Something* was up, and he would be damned if he didn't find out quickly what it was. He just knew it had been a bad idea to let the werewolf back into Hogwarts. And that was beside the fact that he felt like strangling the darned beast every time he laid eyes on him.  
  
By the time McGonagall finished her discourse another half hour later, and Dumbledore thanked them all for their attention, imprinting upon them the necessity to abide by all the new rules, Snape was boiling on the inside. Lupin hadn't removed his eyes from McGonagall once, which in itself was more than suspect. Considering exactly *how* mind-numbing her speech had been.  
  
Dumbledore's final words amounted to "constant vigilance", a reminder of Mad-Eye Moody Snape really didn't need; his mood turned even fouler.  
  
Lupin seemed eager to leave the staff room, and was one of the firsts through the door. Snape swiftly followed him, not even acknowledging McGonagall's attempt at starting a conversation with him. By the time he'd caught up with the werewolf, they were both far ahead of the other staff members, and the hall around them was deserted.  
  
"Lupin!", Snape snarled. The man in question took a few more steps before slowly stopping in his tracks, and turning around in an uncharacteristically hesitant manner. He merely stared.  
  
"What's going on?", Snape queried in his most threatening bark.  
  
Lupin seemed to waver for a moment, and then apparently pulled himself together, for he calmly looked Snape in the eye. His voice was perfectly composed as he echoed: "Going on? What should there be going on?"  
  
"You know damn well what I am talking about! You're up to something, now just admit it." Eyebrows were questioningly raised in perfect innocence. "You keep looking at me! Didn't you think I'd notice? Do not measure me by your own stupidity!" He let that sink in for a second. "I'm warning you, you play one single trick on me, you make one single move, and you are out." His voice had dropped to dangerous, silky tones. "Because if you antagonise me in any - and I mean any - way, you can find yourself a new provider for the Wolfsbane Potion - which is the only thing keeping you here."  
  
The werewolf seemed completely unmoved by his speech.  
  
Bugger.  
  
Angry that his intimidation apparently had no effect, he decided to take it a little further. He took a step towards the werewolf, their noses inches apart, and stared menacingly into the expressionless face. "And with that, I wish you very much luck." He spat the words, and he was sure some of his spittle had hit Lupin in the face.  
  
Now that was a satisfying thought.  
  
Lupin remained perfectly placid throughout the entire tirade, though Snape could have sworn his cheeks had tinged a faint pink at the start of it. Now, however, he did not even blink. Light brown eyes looked innocently into his own. He had the nerve to fold his face into a puzzled expression.  
  
In a tone that conveyed wonder, he stated: "Severus, I have no idea what you are talking about."  
  
As he spoke the last words, McGonagall and Dumbledore rounded the corner, and Snape was forced to back down. Which didn't keep him from glaring furiously.  
  
"Ah, Remus, could I have a word with you, please?"  
  
"Certainly, Headmaster."  
  
Snape practically growled in frustration as he watched Lupin get away, walking alongside Dumbledore. He very near foamed at the mouth when he heard the old man laugh softly and easily at something Lupin must have said. McGonagall shot him a wary glance, and her features mirrored disapproval as she caught the look of pure loathing and hatred. However, she knew better than to comment on it, which really was lucky for her.  
  
As McGonagall proceeded after the two men, Snape quickly stalked in the other direction, heading for the dungeons. For once, he slammed the door behind him as he entered his private rooms. He stopped just short of banging his head against the cold stone wall, hoping for some inspiration. What was Lupin planning? He knew it *would* be hard to find someone else to brew the Wolfsbane Potion, or at least that gaining it from another source would cost Lupin a lot of money - money he couldn't spare.  
  
Unfortunately, Snape also knew that he couldn't ignore a direct order from Dumbledore. And considering that even almost killing him hadn't got Lupin expelled, Snape strongly doubted anything would. As long as the werewolf would be here, Dumbledore would make Snape brew the potion. Not to mention that Snape himself would *not* be happy, having a wild werewolf running around the grounds, or perhaps even the school itself. He'd run into one once, and didn't care to repeat the experience, thank you very much.  
  
He didn't doubt that Lupin knew enough to understand that Snape could never make his threat stand. Which got him back to where he'd started from. He had to find out what was going to happen, preferably before it actually took place. He wondered if perhaps something was already going on. That would certainly explain why Lupin kept staring at him. Something about his appearance. But that didn't make any sense. None of the other teachers had looked at him as though anything was wrong or even out of the ordinary. Nor had his students remarked on anything - which, Snape was certain, they wouldn't refrain from doing if there was any cause for it.  
  
Another thought struck him. What if Lupin was cursing him - which would require eye contact? But Snape didn't feel any different. No, he decided, whatever "joke" the werewolf had in mind, it had yet to be executed. It worried him. Werewolves were extremely untrustworthy creatures, and he had no doubt that what Lupin had concocted would be cruel and devious.  
  
Perhaps the werewolf was not happy about the Wolfsbane Potion, and was really hungering for blood? Snape's blood, perhaps.? Though that would effectively cut off his supply of Wolfsbane, Snape did not put it passed him. It *would* probably get Lupin expelled, and perhaps even get him landed in Azkaban. But who knew how a werewolf's mind worked, and how far he would go to get what he wanted? 


	2. Discoveries

OK, here's chapter 2 - finally. Sorry to keep you waiting for so long but RL kind of got away with me. *grimaces*  
  
Thanks to StellaPen, Pedagogue, Youko Gingitsune (BTW, I have no idea, I'm sure I've reviewed stories before joining myself...?), Julla-Luna and sugahcat for reviewing!! *throws kisses at them*  
  
And great thanks to beta-reader Chris!  
  
Previous chapter: Snape catches Remus looking at him and is convinced The DADA teacher is planning a prank - or something more serious. Snape's intent on finding out what it is before it is too late.  
  
Snape almost laughed when the door opened up to a simple "Alohomora". He remained cautious, however, checking for any possible spells trapping him once he was inside. There were none. Apparently the werewolf was a very trusting creature - or otherwise he was just plain dumb. He decided upon the latter.  
  
He looked around the room for a moment, taking in the heavy wooden furniture, and the comfortable sofas. *Green* sofas, he noted, and smirked. It wouldn't do to stand around for too long, he resolved. Though Lupin had only just started on his dinner when Snape left, the shorter the time Snape would spend in this room, the smaller the chance of him getting caught.  
  
After briefly perusing some shelves, he hastily, though carefully, opened drawer after drawer and door upon door, looking for anything that might give him a clue as to what he could expect. He did not have any inhibitions in examining the most personal belongings of one of his colleagues - after all, it was just a werewolf. He found there were not many of them, though - he came across one worn robe, a stack of boxer shorts, and a small assortment of socks in the otherwise empty wardrobe. In the desk-drawers, he found some quills and parchments, which no doubt had been provided by the school, and a number of tattered books, which were of absolutely no interest to Snape.  
  
Well, all but one. He found a thick book with a plain, black cover in the bottom drawer, and opened it to read. It was hand-written, and he was fairly sure it was Lupin's handwriting. Impatiently, he flicked back to the first page, and couldn't suppress a grin when he read: "Remus Lupin's Personal Diary". The handwriting was very childish, and though about three- quarters of the pages were written upon, he guessed the werewolf wasn't really one to write in his diary every day. Nevertheless, this could prove to be *very* interesting.  
  
He realised that he probably held the secrets to just about every prank Potter, Black, Lupin and Pettigrew had ever played in his hands. If only he could show this to Dumbledore! But he knew he couldn't, and even if he could Dumbledore wasn't likely to punish Lupin almost twenty years after the facts. All the same, Snape himself was very interested in knowing. He quickly read random passages at the beginning of the diary, but he did not find anything that captivated his attention. He snorted at an entry no doubt made the day after a full moon, about how much the transformation hurt, and so on. Snape thought he deserved every bit of that pain.  
  
Suddenly it occurred to him there was one entry he certainly would like to read. Lupin had always claimed he had not been in on that joke Black had tried to play on him. And though Snape did not doubt for one second that it was a plain lie, he wanted to see it in writing. He wanted proof, even if he couldn't use it. He rapidly leafed through the diary, looking for the right entry. Which shouldn't be all that hard, since he knew the exact date of the incident. After all, looking death - or in this case, a werewolf - in the eye, isn't something one forgets.  
  
He found he was right about Lupin not writing daily - apparently only when he felt the need to. Snape wondered whether that incident had actually made it *in* the diary, for all Lupin could care.  
  
But then, there it was. The date was marked the day after that near-fatal night. The writing was strangely wobbly. And Snape read avidly.  
  
"*I don't know how to start, or what to say.* (A blotch, as if he had paused to think) *Well, it's quite simple, really. Last night, I almost killed someone. You're not going to believe who, and why. It was Severus Snape, of all people. Severus Snape, who now has the power to tell the world what I am, if so he wishes. As I've told you, we don't get along. At all. He now has the power to destroy me, and it scares me. No, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I don't even think that's what's scaring me - yet. God, I always thought everything would be fine, everything would be all right. Either locked up in the Shrieking Shack, or guarded by Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail. Though the thought has frightened me before, I never actually thought I would one day hurt someone - or get a chance to. Thank God for James. Thank God. Oh Padfoot. I don't know how I feel about him now. Anger? Hate? Disappointment? I just don't know. I feel he has betrayed my trust. Yes, that's about it. But that's not all. Oh, I just don't know. It hurts. Physically, also, I mean. I bit and scratched myself like I hardly ever did before. I'm writing this with my right hand, because I can't hold a quill in my left one; it's bandaged. It hurts. And maybe that's good, you know, maybe like this I can concentrate on the physical pain, just focus on that, and I can ignore the emotional pain. The confusion. Oh, thank God for James. What would have happened if I had really killed him? How would I feel now? I can't even really think about it. It makes me feel sick. Because in a way, this is all my fault. I mean, I know I didn't have anything to do with it. I didn't tell Snape how to bypass the Whomping Willow, nor did I make him follow me. Sirius' fault, and his, respectively. But it's still my fault isn't it? It's my fault because I'm the werewolf.* (.)"  
  
The door opened and Snape nearly dropped the diary. Lupin stepped in, his face calm and unworried for a moment - and then he saw Snape. His eyes widened in shock, then lowered to take in the diary. Deep grooves were suddenly drawn across the otherwise friendly face, as anger washed away any other emotion. It was quite a sight to behold. It was rather amusing, in a way. Snape suppressed a smirk.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Lupin shouted, advancing menacingly, all vestiges of calm abandoned. Who knew he was capable of such extreme feelings?  
  
Snape snapped the book shut. Despite the fact that a part of him felt increasingly entertained by Lupin's unusual behaviour, the more instinctive part of him felt trapped. If anybody else had walked in on him, he felt sure he could have talked himself out of it. But how did you explain to a werewolf that it was OK, because, after all, he was just a werewolf, and therefore did not merit the privacy of a human being? No, he thought. That tactic certainly wouldn't do. He decided that his usual tactic would probably be better. Attacking.  
  
"I, Lupin," he started in his most frosty voice, "am here to find out what's going on - what joke you have in store for me, since you refuse to tell me yourself. Considering the ones you have played on me before - one in particular - that seemed like a reasonable thing to do, as I do not wish to die anywhere in the near future." There. That should put him back into place. He deliberately omitted the fact that he had just found out Lupin might not have been in on that particular joke after all.  
  
"Give me that", the werewolf snapped coldly, an odd nervous tic pulling the right corner of his mouth down reflexively. Not having much choice - and, though he would rather be submitted to several rounds of Cruciatus followed by the Killing Curse before admitting it, rather impressed by the sheer anger Lupin could radiate - Snape complied, handing him the diary.  
  
Lupin clutched it in his hands, and glared at Snape, nailing him to the spot. Snape knew he couldn't just walk out. Lupin would go straight to Dumbledore, who no doubt wouldn't be pleased. He probably wouldn't get expelled over it, but he certainly didn't feel like being called to the Headmaster's office like an offending first year. That would be humiliating. *As opposed to being at the werewolf's mercy*, a taunting voice nagged him. He mentally threw an Avada Kedavra its way. It fell mercifully quiet.  
  
He weighed his other options: throwing more accusations at the werewolf, or pleading with him. He thought, after a moment's consideration, that the first probably wouldn't help matters, and as he wasn't about to do the latter, he just kept quiet, and waited, piercing Lupin with his best and most frightening glare. Well, he *hoped* it was frightening. It should be. But the werewolf didn't seem impressed. He was probably *used* to all of Snape's most horrible glares by now.  
  
The fury in Lupin's eyes, on the other hand, was, for all its unusualness, unsettling. Well, it would have been unsettling to anyone but himself, he amended. Right.  
  
They stood like that for a long time, Lupin apparently deep in thought, until he finally breathed in deeply, nostrils still flaring, and spoke quietly, barely suppressing his anger. "What is going on, Severus," he started, mocking Snape's earlier lofty tones, eyebrows raised in sarcasm, "is that I am in love with you."  
  
Snape burst out laughing. At least he did on the inside - he couldn't quite exteriorise the feeling; he was too shocked. He had expected a lot of things. Had expected a lot of lies, even. This was not one of them. This was ludicrous. The werewolf looked oddly serious.  
  
"Now, don't you worry", he continued bitterly, with perhaps a note of self- mock in his soft voice. "It's just a crush, nothing serious, and I'm sure it'll be over in a couple of weeks. I'm sure *this* will help" - he waved the diary about, indicating their situation, his seemingly rational voice still laden with anger. "In the meantime, I'll keep my staring to a bare minimum. I apologise for any inconvenience. If that will be all, I would like you to leave my rooms." He breathed. "Now."  
  
Snape didn't need any more encouragement. 


	3. The Joke

Just a very short chapter this time, sorry. The next one is longer, I promise! It will most likely be up next Friday.  
  
With many, many thanks to Lunatic, N Snape, ShiTiger, Yuta, Lizard, Phayze and Wafflecat (two reviews, too! Mwah! You're a darling!) for reviewing! *pulls them into a nearly choking group hug* Thank you! And once again with a great many thanks to Chris for betaing!  
  
He slammed the door of his chambers behind him, the loud bang hardly doing anything to alleviate his anger. So *this* was what Lupin had been planning. This was the so-called joke. *Well.* That explained all the blatant staring. *But it hadn't been all that blatant, had it?* Yes, well. No doubt the werewolf was a bloody good actor, and had known how to pace himself - how to make the staring seem furtive, whilst being certain Snape was watching him. After all, he'd almost believed him.  
  
Storming out of the DADA teacher's room with less dignity than was his wont - and not much caring about it - he'd tried to grasp what the werewolf had been thinking, declaring his love to none other than Snape - it was quite ridiculous. Casting about a few wild ideas, his mind had settled for the caper-theory. There was simply no other explanation. The concept of Lupin being truthful did not bear contemplating.  
  
Did it?  
  
*No, it didn't. Definitely not*, a voice answered calmly out of nowhere.  
  
The idea, Snape gathered, had been to mock his looks. How very original. What Lupin, in his limited mind, apparently hadn't considered, was that the very idea of having a werewolf in love with him made him nauseous. This was true, and the thought mercilessly suppressed the twinge of old pain at the chaffing of his appearance.  
  
How on earth did he know Snape was attracted to men, anyway?  
  
But then again, perhaps the whole purpose *had* been to make Snape feel nauseated. There was something wrong with that, somehow, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was, and maybe he didn't care to, either. He felt slightly reassured now he knew nothing life threatening was going to happen to him. Not that he'd let his guards down on that account. He wished he'd had the chance to read the few last entries to ensure himself he would not be the victim of any other "jokes" in the near future. Surely the werewolf wouldn't have a whole set of them lined up?  
  
Well, best let Lupin see he couldn't care less about the insult. Possibly, it was also best to convince *himself* that the matter was of no importance. What could he care about his looks, when he had one of the most brilliant minds at Hogwarts and beyond? Not at all, of course. Feeling better at once, he occupied himself with reading one of his most ancient and intricate potion books, revelling in the knowledge that most likely not even Albus Dumbledore could apprehend the complicated formula's and recipes. But he, Severus Snape, could.  
  
He smirked happily and read on. 


	4. Of looks and sleeplessness

A day later than I intended, but here it is anyway.  
  
Gives a big, big kiss to Miffi and N Snape for reviewing the previous chapter. MWAH!  
  
And once more with many thanks to Chris for betaing!  
  
Previous chapter: Snape thinks Lupin's declaration of love is a joke intended to mock his looks, and seeks comfort in a complicated potions book.  
  
This chapter is rated R for language.  
  
At three o'clock in the morning, Severus Snape damned a certain werewolf to hell. For the twenty-third time, to be exact. Well, the twenty-third time since he'd lain down on his bed, anyway. He couldn't get to sleep. And it was all Lupin's fault. He hadn't thought about him once since he'd picked up the potion book - until his head hit the pillow. About two minutes after sliding into bed, his mind started nagging at him.  
  
Why, if it was all a joke, had Lupin appeared so. surprised when he'd realised Snape knew he was gazing at him? He had looked as if he'd been caught in the act of doing the forbidden. Which really didn't make much sense if he wanted Snape to believe he had a crush on him. Unless, of course, he'd anticipated the Potions master's reasoning, and had put up a splendid act. For splendid it was, then; Snape had never in his life met anyone who could blush on purpose.  
  
But, the professor reminded himself, it was simply impossible for Lupin to feel attracted to him. He felt sure the werewolf hated him, but besides that, it wasn't as if Snape was attractive in any way. He was flooded with one of his less pleasant memories, and sharply bit the inside of his lower lip to keep all emotion at bay, despite the fact that he was alone in the dark.  
  
This memory was really nothing compared to his Death Eater past. Which usually was enough to suppress it. Damn Lupin for deriding his looks, of all things. He decided that mocking someone's looks really wasn't equitable - after all, he couldn't help the way he was born. Perhaps the werewolf simply hadn't espied anything else to laugh at. Yes, that must have been it. Gah. Who was he kidding? He could have laughed at a billion things - and Snape wouldn't have cared less.  
  
But now, he remembered all too well the hurt he'd felt all those years ago, at the end of his sixth year - and even then, he'd tried to ignore it, pretend it didn't matter one bit. Mary Roswell had been in his year - also a Slytherin. The deal he'd made with her had been completely straightforward - no beating about the bush, no pretending. He helped her with her Potions and Charms - her marks were so abominable she would have had to repeat the year without his assistance - and she introduced him to the wonders of carnal pleasure. Well, the wonders of sharing it with someone else, anyway.  
  
He'd been rather curious about it, and found the arrangement satisfying. He was no longer the only inexperienced Slytherin of his year. He did not like that the others kept jeering at him about it - it marred his pride. So in spite of his wondering what the fuss was all about, he was rather content with the fact that they had shagged twice. At least, he had been until he'd caught her with Merton Delware, a seventh year Slytherin. Who was rather good at Transfiguration, he'd remembered later.  
  
It wasn't that he thought she was cheating on him; he honestly didn't care about that, as he was not in love with her - the very thought of *that* was ridiculous. It was her reaction, while. being with Delware, that had shocked him. She'd been quite responsive, making sounds that echoed all around the top room of the Astronomy Tower. *Moaning.* In fact, she was so caught up in what she was doing - or what Delware was doing to her - she hadn't even noticed Snape come in. When she'd been with *him*, she'd been utterly quiet and remarkably unresponsive.  
  
It hadn't bothered him, then. Actually, he preferred her quiet. This groaning business was quite disgusting. What did bother him, though, was that she seemed to take so much more pleasure in shagging this idiot, who really wasn't very attractive, either - he didn't notice back then he thought about the other boy in such terms - and couldn't possibly be much more experienced than Snape was. Was he *that* bad, then?  
  
He'd concluded he must be, and that had indeed hurt his pride. So he determined that looks didn't matter to him. Truth be told, they *hadn't* before. The exceedingly proud Slytherin simply couldn't stand not being best at something - or at the very least, being left behind. Or being laughed at - even if it was for as shallow a reason as his looks. And he knew they were right about it - he wasn't handsome. So he'd put himself above that - after all, physical needs were of the most basal kind, and Snape would no longer lower himself to needing someone else to fulfil them. He would not be governed by something as fickle as his body.  
  
As for Mary, the last time he'd spoken with her was when he'd handed her an absolutely inferior essay on Potions, pretending it was nothing short of brilliant. She hadn't asked for his help after that - after all, she could manage failing her essays quite well on her own. She'd only just passed Potions that year. Damn the Potions teacher for not wanting her in his class a year longer than necessary. Of course, he applied the same theory on Longbottom himself now, so he couldn't really blame his old teacher anymore.  
  
It was during seventh year that he discovered he preferred men. It had momentarily awakened his curiosity - would it be more pleasurable with a man than it had been with Mary? But the question had been cast aside almost as soon as it had surfaced. He didn't care. He'd actually managed to convince himself he didn't, and he still held that belief. Or tried to. More conclusive over the years, however, was the fact he found most people bothersome, anyway. It just wasn't worth it. No, he was quite happy going through life on his own.  
  
And he absolutely resented the fact that, sometimes late at night, he wondered what it was like, fucking someone you were attracted to. Of course, it was a purely academic question. It had to be, he admitted to himself on rare occasions, since it wasn't likely anyone would ever be attracted to him.  
  
Of course, it was just his luck that the one time someone might be attracted to him, it was a damned *werewolf*. Well, it did make sense, in a way. As an inferior being, Lupin might well look up to Snape. He reflected on that, analysing the werewolf's behaviour of the past weeks. Again. It made him none the wiser. The truth was that Snape simply couldn't anticipate how Lupin thought. Not trusting him in the least, he heard double entendres in everything the werewolf said. Or just plain lies.  
  
Could it be, he mused now - and attributed it to his lack of sleep - that Lupin really had a crush on him? Obviously, his evil mind supplied, that would offer whole new possibilities for blackmail or simple pestering. He grinned. (Grinning was an emotion he allowed himself to express, and most certainly in the dead of night.) His common sense was already casting about some ideas for humiliating the werewolf. His grin grew wider.  
  
After a while, his mind returned to Earth. The chances that Lupin's feelings *were* genuine were rather slim. Surely there must be other people out there who would like the werewolf - people who were handsomer than Snape. He tried to imagine for a moment that he didn't know Lupin was a werewolf - and better still, that he didn't know Lupin was a Gryffindor and one of James Potter's best friends. He'd never viewed Lupin in such a detached manner, and found it quite difficult to accomplish. Rather impossible, actually, but at least he managed to diminish his feelings of resentment for a moment.  
  
He tried to focus on the physical aspects of Lupin. Well. He really wasn't much of a catch, was he? No, definitely not. Though, come to think of it, there was *something* about that too-thin, tired face. Something rather fragile. Snape's stomach revolted. Where had that come from? *Fragile??* Lupin was all *but* fragile. And Snape certainly held no appreciation whatsoever for fragility. Definitely not. His insides gave another repulsed jolt. Then again, come to think of another thing, Lupin's built was stronger than Snape's - his worn robes could barely hide that. Momentarily abandoning his objective assessment, the thought much displeased Snape. He reminded himself he did have a few inches on the wretched creature. His anger somewhat appeased, he breathed again, and returned to his observations.  
  
What were his eyes like? He tried to remember. The closest he came to a conclusion, was that they were hazel. Or some such. Well, definitely some shade of brown. Or was it green? He thought not. Snape always paid much attention to other people's facial expressions - which had come in useful on more than one occasion - but somehow never really took in their features. Especially if he didn't like the person in question in the first place.  
  
He smirked. Lupin *was* turning prematurely grey. Tsk tsk. His own hair was still a mass of pure black, he mused not without pride and satisfaction. Not that it was attractive, but he wouldn't fail to note anything that put him above Lupin. And he would be damned before admitting the greying actually suited the DADA teacher. Or even consciously noticing it, for that matter. And although the blasted werewolf *was* rather well-built - broad- shouldered and all that - he also looked as though the closest he had got to a meal for the past years were some insects he dug out of the ground during his transformations. (Well, come to think of it, Snape really had never looked very closely at what exactly Lupin was eating at meals.) It wasn't just that his robes were tattered - *he* looked tattered as well.  
  
That was a rather satisfying thought. Which got driven clear away by the knowledge that despite all that, Lupin was still a good deal more attractive than Snape was. There was no denying that. It was most infuriating. He told himself he was absolutely not jealous of the werewolf's looks. He didn't want to look so. so. worn out. Used up was the word he was looking for. He was quite happy with the fact that people cowered at his mere approach. And he really was. He didn't want to resemble Lupin - he was just disgusted by the fact that Lupin bested him at something.  
  
And disgusted by the fact that the werewolf had him *thinking* about all this. What was he *doing*? He should be trying to sleep! Damn Lupin and his despicable sense of humour for keeping him awake! (*Twenty-fifth damnation*, some inner voice drawled. Or was it twenty-ninth? Well, anyway, the werewolf was sure to end up in hell by now. Not that the damned Dark Creature needed his cursing to ensure just that.)  
  
He turned onto his side and decidedly went to sleep. 


End file.
